


Little Secrets

by Alpherae



Series: Stacking the Deck [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dovahkinne, F/M, Family, Gen, Mostly Fluff, Not about the main quest, Politics, Prompt Fic, Slice of Life, Tags will be added as necessary, Tarot Prompts, is the plural yes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-27 05:12:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 9,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12574456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alpherae/pseuds/Alpherae
Summary: Mortals are not dragons, even when they have a dragon's soul. With what they get up to, this is probably just as well.





	1. Two of Coins

**Author's Note:**

> I'm using tarot cards as prompts, specifically the Steampunk Tarot created by Barbara Moore and Aly Fell. In this fic, it's the Minor Arcana excluding the court cards.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maintaining balance.

It would be easier if there was fog. If trying to remember returned only blurry impressions or even pain, at least then she would know there was something wrong, something missing.

There wasn't any fog.

There was nothing.

She opened her eyes to grimy timbers barely a handspan from her nose, and gate-guards that jumped when she spoke. For all anyone could tell, she might not have even existed before that moment. No sightings, no footprints, no memories.

(Perhaps she did not)

The guards had taken her to a hall with a statue of Mara taking pride of place, but the Aedra was the only thing she recognised. First the priests had tried to help, then they had brought in a vague, distracted Bosmer—the court wizard, apparently—and now the peace of the temple was disrupted as the jarl's steward argued with a tall Nord about her fate.

She looked at her hands, rubbing her thumb against the long-healed stump of her little finger. Of ten fingers, only six remained intact and even those were marked, pale burns and thin scars standing out against the grey skin. Her feet twitched, kicking at the skirt of her dress (too long, too fine, too strange), and Sera Balu placed a gentle hand on her wrist.

“Be easy, child, we will not cast you out.”

She forced herself to look up at the priestess and smile. She didn't run from the hall, lost in panic, nor did she sink into her own mind until nothing could touch her (nothing is there). She kept her seat as the steward handed her the papers. She took the pen and dipped it just far enough into the inkwell, and carefully echoed the straight, square letters (should bend, should curve) of her new name.

“Falanu Samandas.”

(So close, so far, so _wrong_ )

 


	2. Two of Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hesitating over a decision.

The hoe blade was well-crafted, the edge straight and sharp with no tags to catch and tear. Lurog weighed it in his hand, spinning it end over end as he thought, and listened to the rustling in the juniper tree behind his left shoulder. There was the sound of snapping twigs, a shout, and a blur of movement that ended with Lurog sitting on another, younger Orsimer, twisting the boy's arm against his back and shoving his face into the dirt.

The other squirmed, lifting his head to spit out grass and muck. “Truce, truce, now get off me, Lu!”

Lurog slid off to sit beside him, and scooped up the hoe again.

“Lucky I knew you were there, Lar,” he said mildly.

The younger boy spluttered. “Did not!”

“We could try again,” he said. “This time I'll remember to throw this at your head.”

Larak eyed the hoe blade waving under his nose and subsided.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Thinking.”

“Whatcha thinking?”

Lurog shrugged and said nothing. Larak huffed and picked up a twig, brushing away dead grass so he could use it to wear little holes in the ground. They sat in silence, listening to a flock of buntings whistling among the rocks behind them.

“Thinking I don't want to be chief when the time comes,” Lurog said finally.

His brother jammed a twig too hard against a stone and cursed as it snapped. “Who says you're gonna be?”

There was a pause, then Lurog dropped the hoe and threw himself to the side, landing on Larak's back before he could scramble away. “I say,” he growled in the younger boy's ear. The boy struggled only briefly before he went limp.

“You could throw the fight,” he suggested hopefully. “Ow!”

Lurog loosened his grip on Larak's arm and leaned away to let him up. Lurak glared back, rubbing his maltreated elbow.

“Well, if you don't wanna be chief and you're not gonna let me be chief, what _are_ you gonna do?”

The boys stared at each other. Lurog leaned back on his hands, tilting his head to look up at the cold blue sky, and let his breath out hard.

“Thinking about leaving,” he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to sort out the timeline, don't I. Anyway, there's a decade or two before Alduin shows up.


	3. Ace of Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An opportunity to harness and express your will.

The molten glass shone like sun on the water, glowing translucent orange-yellow-red in the basalt tray. Caranya narrowed her eyes against the glare and began to lay the strands of magicka down by feel and instinct. For an instant, it worked: the iridescent there-not-there merged with the heavy fluid and began to reshape itself in resonance with the world, sucking the heat in so fast that the glass twisted and crackled like rotten ice.

Caranya threw herself back with a curse, and squeaked as the neck of her tunic tightened and pulled her all the way down to the floor. Thousands of glass shards exploded into the ceiling, shattering themselves further and falling like very sharp rain upon the ward she'd barely raised in time. She held it for a moment longer after the ringing stopped, and turned her head to the side.

A rather annoyed Argonian stared back at her through the purple glaze of a Morrowind-style shield.

“I begin to see why Master Tolfdir wishes for someone to work with the Apprentice,” the lizard-woman said tartly. “'Though not why that someone is me.”

“Student...?” Caranya managed. She had definitely seen the other woman around the College before, but the introductions appeared to have been skipped.

“I am Dreams-Of-Wings,” she replied, pulling them both upright. “Studying the historical uses of Alteration, specifically the Thu'um. And the Apprentice?”

Caranya shook some wayward shards from her clothes. “Caranya of Lillandril, and I'm investigating the spellwork behind the Elder Scrolls.”

“With molten glass?”

Dreams-Of-Wings gave her a pointed look, and she forced herself not to touch the half-healed burns dotting her mouth and nose like freckles.

“I had hoped that the thaumalogical symbolism of a liminal material would counteract any deficiencies in the rune-lattice, not to mention providing additional power through heat transfer, but...”

They stared at the mess left of Caranya's previously tidy workspace, in particular the thin slither of glass piercing both her notes and the solid timber beneath. The protrusion on the underside of the table was as long as her thumb.

“Perhaps _too much_ heat transfer,” the Argonian suggested thoughtfully.

 


	4. Ace of Coins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An opportunity for prosperity.

Lurog was searching the dusty remains of the skooma dealer for a key, and trying not to choke on the stench of vampire, when he heard a faint scuff to one side. Throwing himself in the other direction was a perfectly sensible response, but it was still embarrassing to end up flat on his back and held at knifepoint by a skinny wee Dunmer.

She eyed him thoughtfully for a moment.

“The skooma's in the barrels over that way,” she told him with a jerk of her chin. “But drinking it's a bad idea.”

“Really,” Lurog said dryly. “I never would have guessed.”

The girl snorted and sank back on her heels, relaxing when he didn't bother to move. He probably could have flattened her, if he didn't mind losing an eye, but he was starting to suspect...

“Falanu Samandas?”

“Who's asking?” she returned, eyes narrow.

“Lurog gro-Khazgur,” he said. “Apparently, more rumours came in after you left. The College got worried and sent word to the Companions.”

“Hence, you,” Falanu said, beginning to grin.

“Hence, me,” he agreed. “Can I get up now?” That last bit came out a little more plaintive than he liked, and the girl smirked as she put the knife away entirely and offered him a polite hand up. Lurog probably out-massed her twice over, but she had knocked him on his rear, so he was careful to lean on her just enough to be polite.

“I don't know whether to be pleased they were worried, or insulted at the thought I needed help,” she said, stepping back to looking up at him. “What did they tell you about this mess?”

Lurog looked around the gloomy den. The place had been filthy even before he'd swatted the vampires. Thankfully, their thralls were still too drugged to notice anything, but who knew how long that would last.

“Skooma—worse than usual—and vampires,” he shrugged. Falanu's mouth twisted and she threw a wary glance at the open gate on the other side of the room.

“They were dosing it with something, no idea what but Stendarr help us all if it gets into a town's water supply. I couldn't find the source: there were at least a dozen of them down there, probably more out of sight, and I was pushing my luck as it was.”

“Were they spread out or bunched up?” Lurog asked.

“Mostly spread out, but I didn't see the master and he'll have lackeys,” the girl replied. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

“Probably,” Lurog grinned and began walking to the gate. “But I don't know where to find that much ale at this time of night, so you'll have to settle for me bashing the daylights into 'em.”

Falanu muffled a snicker and slipped past him to lead the way. “A lovely idea,” she said. “I'll just make sure no one _else_ gets the drop on you.”

Lurog held his silence, and hopefully his dignity. She wasn't exactly wrong, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lurog kinda took over the next few chapters, probably because he's the sort to know everyone and everyone knows him.


	5. Ace of Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An opportunity for an emotional experience or growth.

The Argonian caught his attention first when he stuck his head into the room. Lurog had seen lizard-folk before, of course, mostly up at Windhelm, but any of them could have passed for normal with their head covered. This one had to sit backwards on the chair with her legs folded up on either side, a heavy tail ticking slowly between the floor and the side of a foot that was twice the length of his own big boots.

Kodlak coughed gently and Lurog flushed in embarrassment, nodding an apology to the lady.

“Um, you sent for me, Harbinger?” he asked politely. The old man nodded and waved a hand towards his other visitor, the one Lurog had been too distracted to notice.

“The College of Winterhold wants to investigate the ruins of Arkngthamz, and they asked the Companions for backup,” he said. “Caranya of Lillandril, Dreams-Of-Wings, this is Lurog gro-Khazgur, part of the Circle of Jorrvaskr. He is practical, intelligent, and capable of dragging you both out by the heels if something goes wrong.”

Presumably-Dreams-Of-Wings tucked her head to one side, expressionless, but her whole posture radiated amusement. The Altmeri woman, apparently Caranya, stood up and held out her hands. Sharp featured and tall enough to look him in the eye, her colouring nothing but different shades of the same golden hue: she couldn't have been more of a stereotype if she tried. That said, her smile was open and friendly under the faint silver scars that laced her nose and mouth, and he felt both quill and knife callouses on the slim fingers that wrapped around his own.

“I'm sure everything will be fine, but thank you for coming along anyway,” she said, bright-eyed and guileless. Lurog stared back at her, a single thought echoing through his head.

_She can't possibly be as foolish as she looks._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly done with the introductions.


	6. Three of Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Active waiting.

The sound of laughter drifted down from the main hall into the quiet scullery, and Lurog glanced up. It faded quickly and he returned his attention to the rough map of Windhelm spread out of the work table between the dirty pots. Three slim daggers held down one side, and the other edge was tucked under a tray of kitchen knives. Lurog selected another knife from the tray and began running it over the steel absently, keeping his hands busy while he tried to etch the layout of the city streets into his memory.

There was a faint rapping on the door and two Nord women slipped inside, shutting it quickly behind them. The innkeeper looked amused for a moment as she saw the array of polished knives before returning to business.

“I've done what I can,” she said firmly. “You make sure it's enough, you hear me. I don't want another one like poor Susanna.” She didn't wait around for a reply, simply turned and left.

Lurog nodded. “No more than I do,” he told the empty air and turned his attention to the younger woman fidgeting by the door. “Did the jerkin fit well enough?” he asked, looking her up and down dispassionately. She blushed and spun in place, letting him inspect the simple townswoman's dress and shoes. Her hair was neatly braided into an ornate coronet that only a civilian would bother with, and Lurog suspected Elda had done something to alter the shape of her face and make her eyes appear bluer.

“The dress is a little large, but Elda said that would help,” Hjalti replied softly, the very image of a young woman who had never been outside the walls.

He tilted his head and gave her a second look. “That with the jerkin... I think it does actually. Is there a reason you're not wearing a knife?”

The girl blinked at him and sat down on the other side of the table. “I thought that would make him wary, wouldn't it?” she asked. “If he's looking for an easy mark?”

Lurog shook his head. “After all the murders? We'll find you something ordinary looking, but he'll be more suspicious if you appear unarmed,” he pointed out, and pushed the trio of daggers towards her. “And on that note, these are borrowed from a friend of mine. She wants them back, mind you, so hide 'em well.”

Hjalti got up again and strapped each dagger in place under her skirt and inside her sleeves, drawing one out to inspect it. The ebony blade was dull in the lamplight, threads of red glowing along the edges. “Daedric?” she hissed. “No wonder she wants them back.” The girl shuddered and sheathed the dagger again, meeting Lurog's eyes.

“Are you sure you want to do this, kid?” he asked quietly. “If Wuunferth is right about the timing, the murderer will be getting desperate. I could probably do this by skulking around until he tries again with a passerby.”

“With no way of knowing if you'll get there in time,” Hjalti pointed out. “Better me than someone like Susanna or Friga. It's my duty to help.”

“Alright then,” Lurog sighed. “We've got a bit of time yet. Sit down and we'll go over your route.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: daedric weaponry is hard to find, hard to make, and not _quite_ illegal. You won't get arrested for carrying it, but the guards will be having dark suspicions about thieves and conjurers.


	7. Two of Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deep emotional connection or attraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, I don't really get flirting. I'm not even sure this qualifies.
> 
> Quotes from _Overheard on a Saltmarsh_ by Harold Monro.

Caranya laid the artefact across her lap and stretched, leaning back and pushing her clasped hands up. The object in question was a linked series of bronze cubes inlaid with silver, each the width of her thumb and frustratingly inert. Keeping time underground was a hassle, but the stiffness in her back implied she'd been trying to get a reaction out of the thing for at least three hours. It was time to either stop or find a hammer.

Their campsite was perched on a balcony overlooking Blackreach, the blue-lit roofs of the Silent City marching into the distance far below. Dreams-Of-Wings was nowhere in sight, presumably making sketches of that mural they had found in one of the halls on the second floor. Lurog appeared unconcerned in any case, given that he was leaning against the balcony railing with his sword and helm on the floor beside him.

The Dwemer had not bothered to light this space, small as it was, and the campfire between them was deliberately kept low in case of wandering chaurus. Blue mushroom-light stole the colour from everything the firelight couldn't touch, including Lurog himself. Cheek and chin and forearm were splashed with gold, the muscles shifting like leaves as he twisted needle and wool together, and everything else seemed to dissolve into shadow as Caranya stared.

“Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?” Lurog asked suddenly, never looking up. Caranya blinked, the next lines slipping from her lips in surprise.

“Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?”

Lurog glanced up at her and winked, and she muffled a giggle.

“Give them me,” he said solemnly.

“No,” she replied, curious as to how far he would take it.

“Give them me. Give them me.”

“Hm. No.”

“Then I will howl all night in the reeds,” the Orsimer told her, attempting to pout. It might have worked when he was four years old, but at thirty-four it was just ridiculous. “Lie in the mud and _howl_ for them.”

Caranya gave up and folded over cackling. “Goblin, why—hah—oh, I give up,” she said, breathless. Lurog shrugged at her, looking smug.

“You know,” she said once she'd calmed down. “I've sometimes thought it wasn't the beads the goblin was interested in.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then Lurog grinned.

“I know he wasn't,” he said.

 


	8. Six of Coins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reciprocity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dawnstar is far enough north to have snow all year 'round, you can't tell me winter doesn't affect the shipping. Also, Falanu is such a softy.

Dawnstar was lively in the grey chill of an autumn morning, as the fishing smacks raced for the morning tide around the traders hoping to make one more run before winter iced up the sea routes. Falanu suspected that at least one captain was trying to avoid the docking inspections at Solitude, judging by what she'd overheard in the inn last night, but that was Dawnstar for you.

Tracking the young pickpocket through the bustling streets was an exercise in patience and reading the crowd, and she was glad to be done with it when her path led to a niche between two houses, barely wide enough to be called an alley. The boy had tucked himself under a winter-stripped bush, too focused on counting out the coins from her purse to notice as she crept up behind him.

“Are you desperate or just stupid?” she snapped, and dropped her weight on his shins as he muffled a yelp. Not clever enough to call for help, or perhaps he didn't have anyone who would come when he called. It suited Falanu's purposes well enough, either way, and she inspected him carefully as he gaped at her like a landed fish. A Redguard boy, with maybe half a dozen years to his name and a wiry gauntness that suggested a working life even before he'd washed up on the streets.

“Well, boy? Don't you know that symbol?” she asked a little more gently.

The child glanced at the markings on her purse, fallen unnoticed to the ground, and swallowed. “Um, it's two circles and a diamond?” he said, his accent pure Hammerfell. With a little training, and if his voice held true to adulthood, all the jarls would be vying to claim him for their courts.

“You _are_ a long way from home,” she told him. “And you have no business picking pockets when you don't even know who to avoid. Would you like a job?”

“Wha...?” The boy's eyes widened and he gathered up his courage. “What sort of job?” he asked warily. “Don't you want your purse back? Who are you anyway?”

Falanu grinned at him, pleased. That sort of caution was a good sign for the future. “In reverse order: my name is Falanu Samandas, and I am a bard of the College in Solitude. I would like both my purse and your name in return, if you please. And a lad with a quick mind and nimble fingers would be of great use to me in my work.”

He shifted uncomfortably on the melting snow, still unsure. “I'm Alesan. What's in it for me?”

“The standard apprenticeship contract: food, shelter, clothes,” she said, and shifted her grip to pull the boy to his feet. “But perhaps we should discuss this in the inn over breakfast? I cannot speak for you, but I am hungry. Such a pity my purse was mislaid, perhaps you might have seen it?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone, and a happy mid-season holiday of your choice. It's about 24°C here at the moment, and tomorrow's aiming for 30°C. I wanna move to Antarctica.


	9. Eight of Cups, of Wands, of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving something behind to search for something else | Swift movement | A precarious situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These three ended up too entangled to split into different chapters.  
> The quoted text came from the Player's Journal in Morrowind. The set as a whole was inspired by _Dream of Mississippi_ by S. J. Tucker. Is that enough to make it a song-fic?

* * *

 Extract from the journal of Ilunabi Ashamanu, named Hortator and Nerevarine: 

> I had a disturbing dream. I can only recall one part. A tall figure with a golden mask led me among the dead as through a wedding celebration. I heard many voices, but no lips moved. I strained to breathe, but my chest didn't move. The tall figure spoke with each figure as he passed among them, laughing and joking, as if they were alive, but they made no reply. I tried to cry out, but without breath, my tongue fluttered in vain.

* * *

The dream faded to nothing, but sleep refused to release her. Falanu's limbs were numb and heavy, her eyes refused to open, or perhaps they were open already and she was blind. She could hear breathing in the room—not her own, she could not hear her own breath—and she tried to gasp in a desperate attempt to prove herself alive.

Chill air rushed in, biting her tongue and breaking the paralysis like a sheet of ice. Falanu relaxed, letting the room come into focus around her, glazed by the faint light of the coals in the next room. The weight on her chest shifted and she peered down at Alesan, curled like a puppy under the blanket he'd dragged up with him from his own bed.

He whined sleepily as she eased out from under him, wriggling into the warm spot she left behind. Hammerfall born and bred, and Riften was only warm in comparison to the northern holds, no shame to him for taking the winter hard. She drifted a hand over his head and pushed her feet into her slippers, flipping her own blanket over the boy as well rather than steal it back.

The sleeping coals gave enough light for her to follow into the kitchen, and she found the kettle by the hearth with just enough water left for a cup of tea. Falanu stirred up the fire and set the kettle to boil, sorting blindly through the tea canisters on the mantelpiece for one that smelled right. The kettle rumbled and bubbled on the hearth, only long habit letting her snatch it out before the whistle woke up Alesan.

It didn't change the fact that she was still half-asleep, and she peered at the kettle in confusion until it occurred to her that the cups were on the same shelf as the tea. Eventually, she got the tea into a cup and hot water over the tea without further mishap, although the milk was in the icebox down in the basement and not worth the effort. She sipped her tea gingerly, scrunched her nose, and went back to the shelf a third time to scoop out some honey from the little clay pot with her fingers.

Stirring it into the uncomfortably hot water, Falanu peered back around the doorframe into the bedroom. Alesan was still curled up in the middle of her bed. He'd tugged and tucked the blankets around himself, and in the dark room he looked more like an oddly shaped rock than a boy. She smiled to herself in amusement and left him to his dreams.

She drifted over to the back door and eyed the cloaks lined up on the pegs. The misshapen old fur on the end had too many darns and patches for respectability, but it kept the cold out best and she shrugged it on with one hand, the other still clutching the hot cup. The well-oiled door opened silently and Falanu eased it closed behind her, stepping carefully across damp planks to a chair around the corner tucked under the eaves. She wrapped the fur cloak around herself and sat down sideways, leaning on the chair back and twitching her foot back and forward as she looked out across the misty lake, sipping her tea and thinking hard as the dawn light slowly grew.

Alesan found her there after sunrise, leaning on the balcony rail with her hands wrapped around the empty cup, watching the sun burn the mist off the lake, glittering on the water.

“Aunt Falanu?” he asked, shivering next to her in the cool morning air.

Falanu blinked at him and heaved a sigh. “I need to go to Solstheim,” she said. Alesan pulled a face.

“Can it wait 'til after breakfast?” he asked. Falanu grinned at him, pushing herself upright. She pulled her cloak off and dropped it on his head as she passed.

“Get inside, dear, before you catch a chill,” she told him, holding the door open. “I'm in the mood for yams.”

* * *

Extract from the journal of Ilunabi Ashamanu, named Hortator and Nerevarine:

> In my dream, a tall figure with a golden mask greeted me, saying, "There are many rooms in the house of the Master. Be easy, for from the hands of your enemies I have delivered you." It seemed I had died and could see myself laid upon a table lit by candles. But with my own hands I touched the figure, and the figure drew breath, opened eyes, and rose from the table. Then the room was gone, and the world filled with light, and I awoke.

* * *

The sea was only a little choppy as the _Northern Maiden_ passed Blacklight Point and swung into the channel where the Sea of Ghosts merged with the Inner Sea. The sails flapped and shook as the wind shifted, clearing away the mist, and the ribbons celebrating the first run of spring shimmered brightly along the lines.

Falanu kicked her heels on the little bench in the bow where she had been told to 'make yourself useful', and twisted her wrist. Enchantments were reasonably fast to cast, but every breath counted when you were warding off ice in the foggy Sea of Ghosts and her hand was starting to cramp. She looked back over her shoulder to where Captain Gjalund stood in the stern, leaning on the tiller. He grinned when he caught her eye and waved his hand sharply sideways. Falanu glanced quickly at the water to be sure it was still clear and relaxed against the rail, and the captain nodded.

“Wait!” he shouted. “Watch!”

She nodded back, shaking the stiffness out of her hands. The _Northern Maiden_ sailed on towards Vvardenfell and slowed gently as the wind dropped, baffled by the mountains on three sides of the bay. The captain ordered them around, shoving at the tiller until Red Mountain was almost behind them and the ship barely drifting in the water.

“On your lines, boys,” he called out, his eyes fixed to the fluttering pennant at the top of the mast. “Ready. Ready...”

Falanu felt a breath of warm air graze her cheek and the captain roared.

“Now!”

Sogrlaf and Lygrleid hauled on the sheets and the sail billowed out once more, catching the warm, ash-laden wind off the Mountain. The _Maiden_ leapt up and flew, and Falanu laughed as the bow split the waves, sending water splashing over the sides. They rode the wind to Solstheim, only slowing as the ship drew near to the coast, following it around to the harbour of Raven Rock. She stared as they passed the Bulwark, awestruck as always by the great dunes of ash piled high on the windward side.

Captain Gjalund turned his ship neatly into the curl of the harbour, and they pulled up beside the jetty with barely a scrape. The crewmen scrambled over the side with the mooring lines to tie the ship up, and the captain walked over to where Falanu still stood in the bow.

“So, then,” he said with a grin. “What did you think?”

Falanu bent to drag her pack out from under the bench and straightened to grin back at him. “I think it takes a clever man to steal the Breath of the Mountain,” she replied and swung the pack onto her shoulder. “I'll have to pass the tale on to the College; the _Maiden_ dancing with Dagoth Ur would make a pretty song.”

Gjalund laughed. “Sing it to me next time and I'll give you free passage. And on that note, will you be heading back tomorrow? We leave on the early tide.”

“I'm not sure how long my business here will take,” Falanu admitted, and they began walking together to the jetty. “Perhaps a week, probably not a month.”

The captain gave her a hand over the side, and waved her off. “I'll see you when I see you then,” he said. “Stay out of trouble!”

* * *

Extract from the journal of Ilunabi Ashamanu, named Hortator and Nerevarine:

> I dreamed that a tall figure with a golden mask spoke to me, but I understood not a word. He smiled, and seemed pleasant, but when he reached to touch me, it terrified me, and I tried to escape, but I couldn't move. I tried to cry out, but I couldn't make a sound. The figure kept smiling and talking, but I felt sure he was trying to cast some sort of spell on me. When I woke, I couldn't recall how the dream ended.

* * *

Stepping out of the water and onto the rocky shore was a rather temporary relief. Small boats were not common enough in Raven Rock for anyone to be willing to sell to a stranger, and stealing one would have left too much of a commotion in her wake. Instead, Falanu had chosen a less obvious path, following the shoreline to the southern-most point of Solstheim and waiting until dusk to activate an water-walking amulet she'd enchanted herself.

It was a gamble, trusting her own skills and the amulet's capacity to cross the Inner Sea at night and alone. She made it to the shores of Vvardenfell just as false dawn gleamed in the east with enough charge left that she probably could have continued until sunrise, if her body held out. What she had not considered was the effect that water-walking for hours on end would have on her muscles, being much like wading through deep jelly.

Falanu staggered ashore and collapsed onto the first stable boulder, sending ash up in drifts. Her ankles and shins both were screaming with overstrained muscles that she'd never needed for dancing. By the time the sun rose over the Mountain, hazy behind red clouds, she'd rubbed out the worst of the pain and was humming to herself, feeling rather better. She slid off the boulder back onto her feet, glanced back across the water to Solstheim, and began to climb.

The gritty ash shifted underfoot not unlike sand, and she quickly fell into a strangely familiar rhythm of step-slide-grip. Glances at the sun became less and less frequent as her confidence in her sense of direction was reinforced instead of diminished as it would have been on Solstheim. The compass wasn't needed at all.

Her breath shifted, patterned on the lilting melody drifting through her mind. Fingers tapped on the rocks scattered in her path. Feet scuffed and swept, touching ground when it _felt_ right, and her heart slowed to match the underlying beat, soft and heavy as ash. Her skipping, skidding slide down into a tiny hollow, barely sheltered from the rising storm, fit perfectly into the music filling her thoughts and she spun, lifting her arms to meet the partner the Song insisted was there.

* * *

Extract from the journal of Falanu Samandas:

> In my dreams, a tall figure in a golden mask spoke to me.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this. The first two sections were actually the first written for this entire fic, but the plot bunnies refused to cooperate with the third until the very end. I still feel like it should be longer, but there's nothing there...


	10. Ace of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An opportunity for a new way of thinking.

If she was honest with herself, Hjalti would have to admit that she had been so busy thinking about the Dark Elf bundled up in her bed that she didn't actually notice when the woman woke up.

“Wher-ack!”

Hjalti fell off the edge of the bed and scrambled up again, snatching up the waiting bowl and shoving it under the woman's mouth.

“Don't try to talk,” she said quickly. The woman gave her a sour look between coughing fits and spat something red into the bowl. “Yeah, I know, but Lurog said the priest said too much ash could turn your lungs to mortar, and you didn't get _that_ much but you still really did a number on 'em and they don't know what that'll do to your voice and apparently you're a bard, and I'm gonna stop babbling now, promise.”

The woman—Falanu, Lu had said—slumped back against the pillow looking bewildered and mouthed something at her. Hjalti blinked.

“Um, you want to know what's going on, right? Well, 'who' is me, Hjalti. The Loud, I mean, rather than Ironfoot or Earlybeard.”

Falanu frowned, flinched when the expression pulled at raw skin, and mouthed _Galmar Stonefist?_

“My uncle, yeah. Um, you're in Windhelm, this is Hjerim. Lurog was too tired to make sense, but he said to keep you out of the Grey Quarter, something about contagious dreams? I dunno, we'll have to wait until he wakes up.”

The Dark Elf hissed, and her expression shifted to an odd combination of _really?_ and _I'm an idiot_. Hjalti hurried on before the woman tried to haul herself out of bed and find a convenient brick wall.

“That's 'where' and 'why', so 'what' would be...” She scrabbled around for the slip of paper Lu had left her and held it closer to the lamp. “Oh. Um. Lack of food, lack of water, physical exhaustion, magical exhaustion, _mental_ exhaustion—what were you _doing_?” she broke off to ask.

Falanu frown-flinched again, and twitched one shoulder in place of a shrug. _Being an idiot_.

“Yeah, well, you probably noticed the bruises and abrasions,” Hjalti said, peering at Lurog's scrawl. “Got to watch for infection, and... Lu is an arrogant sod sometimes, isn't he.”

She looked up again to see Falanu blinking wearily and winced.

“Never mind, you go back to sleep,” she said quickly.

_Alesan?_ Falanu asked, and Hjalti remembered the boy who had arrived half-asleep and firmly attached to Lurog's arm.

“He's asleep too, in Calder's room, you can see him in the morning.”

That seemed to be enough to satisfy the other woman, and she drifted off as Hjalti took a second look at the paper. It wasn't like she would kick Falanu out before she was able to travel, but Lurog could have at least asked.


	11. Three of Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A spontaneous, unexpected joy or pleasure.

Alesan pulled her through the crowd by her wrist, ignoring the sour looks as they pushed past chairs and stools. It was stuffy and dark, and almost entirely filled with Dark Elves, young and old. Even those who didn't recognise her didn't seem happy about her presence.

“Alesan, are you sure I should be here?” Hjalti whispered, looking around the cornerclub warily.

“Just don't be stupid and you'll be fine,” the boy said over his shoulder. “Ah, perfect. 'Scuse me, sir.” He manuvoured her around, and Hjalti found herself standing next to Brunwulf Free-Winter as Alesan hurried away. They shared a baffled look and the man quirked an eyebrow.

“Do you _want_ to be here, girl, or is this one of Alesan's bright ideas?” he asked.

Hjalti shrugged. “I've never seen Falanu perform?” she admitted. “I, I don't know. I guess I'd like to see it.”

Brunwulf nodded and patted her shoulder, and a surprising number of the unhappy faces around her seemed to ease. He leaned back against the wall and nodded to the clear area in the middle of the room where the lanterns were bright.

“Watch,” he said in her ear. “You don't have to do anything, or say anything. Just watch.”

The room was so crowded that there were people sitting on the floor and the barman had to work around the children perched on the bar, but the clear space remained open. If Hjalti stretched a little she could just see Alesan kneeling on the other side between an elderly Dark Elf with a couple of drums, and a slightly younger one bent over a fat, round lute. There was a shuffle of movement behind him and the muttering slowly trailed away. Falanu stepped out of the crowd into the light.

The Dark Elf woman was more stripped down than Hjalti had ever seen her, wearing only a thin tunic and skirt of sky-blue linen, bound close to her body with a wide, red sash that glowed like sunrise. Thick bangles gleamed silver and gold at her wrists, chiming gently as the dancer raised her arms.

Hjalti's breath caught as she remembered that today was the 21st of First Seed: Hogithum, Azura's Day. _This isn't for me_ , she thought, and looked around for a way out. Laughing garnet caught her gaze, holding it, and Falanu winked at her though her fingers, eyes as bright as her ring in the lantern-light.

The drum sounded a heartbeat into the silence, muffled by the sheer crush of bodies, and all were still, waiting. Finally the flute began and Falanu eased into motion, shaping mortal light into the dawn.

 


	12. Four of Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celebrating the culmination of events or the achieving of a goal.

The rain had come and gone while they were in the chapel, leaving the sky washed blue. Abandoned puddles caught the sun, bouncing light into the narrow causeways of Markarth and turning grey stone into silver.

The couple were laughing as they edged down the damp steps, clinging to each other a little more than really necessary. Their progress was slowed by their preoccupation, too engrossed in each other to notice as they walked straight past a Dunmer perched on a ledge next to the path.

“You two look happy!”

Lurog stumbled to a halt, swinging Caranya around as he turned to stare.

“I thought you weren't going to tell anyone beforehand?” Caranya asked him.

Her new husband shook his head. “I didn't,” he muttered. “Falanu? What...? How did you find out?”

The bard laughed at them. “Putting rumours together is my job, Lu, did you expect me not to notice?”

Lurog sighed and let his head fall against his wife's hair. “I should have known better,” he said. “Do I want to know where Alesan is?”

“He's waiting for me at the inn,” Falanu said. “We're heading up to Solitude for a few weeks, so my house will be empty.” She leant forward and snagged Lurog's free hand, dropping a small key into his palm.

“Fal–”

“There's plenty of mead in the basement—the best is in a crate tucked under the table on the west side—and blankets are in the bottom drawer of the cupboard in my room,” she continued over his protests. “Clean up after yourselves, and _never_  tell me the details.”

“You didn't need to do this,” Caranya said softly.

The other woman shrugged. “As I said, I have business in Solitude, so you might as well. Now then.” Falanu grabbed Lurog’s shirt and pulled herself up to kiss his cheek. “Stay out of trouble, you.”

Lurog laughed and hugged her back.

“Thank you, Falanu,” he said, grinning, and stepped back.

She waved Caranya closer to give her a kiss as well. Caranya froze as the embrace suddenly tightened and she could feel Falanu's breath on her ear.

“Break his heart and I'll drag your name through the mud in three countries.”

Falanu sat back on her heels and smiled cheerfully at them both.

“I need to get moving,” she said, standing up on the ledge and walking along it to jump down on the landing below them. “Have fun!”

Caranya watched the woman disappear around a corner and leaned back against Lurog, tightening her grip on his hands at her waist.

“Crossing her would be a bad thing, wouldn't it,” she said thoughtfully, and she felt her husband shrug.

“Her grudges tend to be few, but nasty,” he replied. “More importantly, there's mead waiting for us in Riften. Shall we?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanons about Skyrim marriage and those amulets in particular is a little much to shove in the notes, but the important thing right now is that I think a Dibellan wedding is different to a Maran wedding (specifically ‘these people are a couple’ vs ‘these people are a household’). Lurog and Caranya went for the first, with no intention of going anywhere near the second. Heh.


	13. Seven of Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams and desires.

“Iwantolearntodance!”

Hjalti began to blush fiercely under Falanu's bemused eye. Alesan peered at her with concern.

“Miss Hjalti, you're _red_. Are you alright?”

Falanu bit her lip and tried not to smile. She turned and lifted a misshapen piece of clay from the mantlepiece, tipping its contents into her hand.

“Alesan, there's a minstrel staying at the Bee and Barb,” she said as she sorted through the tangle and dropped a button back into the saucer. “Buy him lunch if he'll teach you a song.”

Alesan bounced over and held out his hands, grinning. Falanu poured out the little collection of coins, but held on when the boy would have pulled away.

“It must be one you don't know already, and remember to eat as well,” she said firmly. Alesan nodded and dashed out the door, snagging his scarf from the hook as he passed.

“I want you home by dusk,” she called after him, and shrugged at Hjalti, waving her to a chair at the kitchen table.

“Now, then,” she sighed, taking the other chair and eyeing Hjalti over folded hands. “Do you really want to learn, or was it just an excuse to get closer?”

Hjalti couldn't get any redder, but she moaned and closed her eyes. “I didn't realise you knew.”

“A poor bard I'd be if I didn't notice,” Falanu pointed out. She tapped her fingers on the tabletop, watching as the young woman began to fidget. Finally she sighed again and got to her feet, checking the kettle for water and putting it on the fire.

“I can't give you what you want,” she said. “But I can give you what you asked for, if that's enough?”

Hjalti shifted uneasily in her seat. “You don't mind?” she asked, and smiled weakly when Falanu shook her head.

“Just don't put your hands where they shouldn't be,” Falanu replied cheerfully, and pulled her to her feet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how characters sometimes decide that This Is The Way It Shall Be? Well, Hjalti decided after Three of Cups that she had a crush on Falanu, which... yeah, sure, whatever. Except that _Falanu_ had decided way back when (before she was even Falanu) that she’s generally not interested in that sort of thing. Though I suspect the age difference would be too much for her anyway.
> 
> And so, this. *Pats Hjalti on the head* Sorry, kid, better luck next time.


	14. Four of Cups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dissatisfaction with reality.

The little house was quiet, the crackling fire no louder than Lurog's humming as he carefully went over the plans. Dreams-Of-Wings watched him as she leant on the back of her chair, trying to decipher his fleeting expressions. Finally, the Orsimer settled back, tugging his beard.

“You do realise this could end very badly for you if something went wrong, hm?” he pointed out. Dreams-Of-Wings lifted her head from her arms and shrugged irritably.  _Why do you think I’m here?_

“I plan to be cautious, yes,” she said aloud. “But I wish to do this, and so I shall. Will the smith aid me?”

He snorted and gave the Argonian a wry look. “You happen to be a favourite of m'lady wife,” he replied. “And I'm sure she'd be a _little_ annoyed if you splattered yourself over half the hold.”

Dreams-Of-Wings rattled her claws on the top rail of the chair, and stared at him firmly. “Will the smith help?” she repeated. She had need of skills that could not be found at the College; he had them and the Arch-Mage's trust. _More reliable than Caranya's heart, in truth, and harder to gain. I don’t_ want _to find someone else._

Lurog grinned and pushed himself to his feet, stepping over the bench and taking the few paces needed to reach the hearth. He paused to give the pottage a stir and leaned over to snag a couple of bottles from the rack on the other wall. One ended up on the table beside Dreams-Of-Wings, but Lurog held onto the other until he found a mug and a charcoal stick amongst the clutter on the shelves.

“You might as well drink up, this'll take a while,” he said as he sat back down at the table. He looked up to meet her eyes and grinned again, filling his mug with ale and saluting her with the half-empty bottle. “Come on then, Dreamer, let's see if we can get you in the air.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally planned on Dreamer’s POV being in present tense, but between the extra length and the slightly looser focus it didn’t work as well as with Spoons. Feel free to yell if I missed a spot cleaning up.  
> Also, Lu is more of a farrier if anything, but Dreamer doesn’t really care about the subtleties.


	15. Five of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A victory tinged with defeat.

A hour after the courier arrived at camp, Hjalti lost patience and took the Jarl's supper in herself. The door on the tent had been tied shut but the knot was easy to pull loose with one hand, intended more as a discouragement than a barrier. She tugged the canvas back into place behind her and carefully set the tray on the rickety table next to a map littered with little red and blue flags.

Ulfric tried to glower at her briefly before he gave it up as a bad cause. There were advantages to growing up in the Palace of the Kings, and Hjalti was well used to his temper. She eyed the table and nudged the tray a little closer to him before dragging a stool over for herself.

They stared at each other for a moment, and Ulfric sighed. He selected a piece of cheese first and waved it vaguely at the girl.

“Go ahead,” he said quietly. Hjalti's mouth quirked and she leant over to inspect the food.

“I'd have thought you'd be happier, my jarl,” she said, scooping up some pickle with a bit of bread.

“Your uncle will be,” he sighed and slumped back in his chair. “As will the Thalmor, I fear.”

Hjalti fumbled the next piece of bread and cursed as her hands were smeared with pickle. “But you won the challenge!” she pointed out in between licking her fingers clean. “Doesn't that mean you're the king now? They can't be happy with that.”

Ulfric urged her towards the water jug in the corner. “Clean yourself up, pup, and that's for the Moot to decide. If the Imperials have their claws in too deep, they may well go with Elisef.” He rattled his fingers on the scrap of paper handed over by the courier and scowled thoughtfully. Hjalti set the jug back down and turned to stare at him.

“But you _won_ , my jarl,” she repeated. “You faced the High King himself in lawful challenge and won. They can't just... can they?”

The Jarl considered her plea and sighed again. “They executed Roggvir this morning,”

“Roggvir?” Hjalti frowned, trying to remember.

“The gate-guard at Solitude,” he explained. “For letting us pass. Treason, they called it.”

The girl returned to her stool and sat down heavily. “This is going to get messy, isn't it,” she said, and Ulfric smiled for the first time since the challenge.

“Hjalti, it's been messy, as you say, for _years_.”

 


	16. Five of Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conflict

She endured Delphine by force of will, speaking calmly, and agreed to meet back in Riverwood while a storm churned in her lungs. Finally, _finally_ , the Blade headed back down the hill, and Dreams-Of-Wings ran up, into the wild lands behind Kynesgrove.

She barely had time to think— _does this happen to Caranya?_ —before Sahloknir struck like an eagle-owl. He drove her to her knees, pursuing her deep into her own mind in a storm of talons and hate. She fled by instinct, bolting through the memory of trees, and all the while hail was beating through her fur, blurring her eyes...

_Fur?_

Dreams-Of-Wings swerved and ducked, and twisted out of the _panicfearterror_ of soft-skinned prey into the cool darkness of Lake Niben, water pressing against her hide and slaughterfish on her tail. The memory drew her down into the depths and she relaxed into it, ignoring the thrashing behind her as Sahloknir got his bearings and squeezed himself into the mental space created by the predatory fish. She spared a moment to be grateful the dragon didn’t truly understand water—the pressure of his voice would kill her, if he dared open his mouth—and darted through the murk like a swallow, leading him on.

Down, around, following the soft treachery of the lake bed to where the currents twisted, unnatural and erratic. Here the muddy water was warmer, fouler, noisy with the echoes of a city and the scent-taste of tainted soil overwhelmed the nose. Awareness-of-light and vibration-at-a-distance were of little use here, and Sahloknir charged on senseless as Dreams-Of-Wings judged his position only by the shifting pressure against her tympani. She twisted again, shoved away from slimed rocks, and clamped down on his neck with a hunter’s teeth.

Power trickled down her throat like blood, and she smiled around broken scales. She held on as the struggling mass beneath her weakened, slowed, and finally burned away like autumn mist. Dreams-Of-Wings opened her eyes in a new-made clearing, stones dislodged and trees flung away and she unharmed at the centre, and laughed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: Argonian senses are similar but not the same to softskins. I’m thinking sight and awareness-of-light are separate, touch is much more sensitive to pressure changes, vibration-at-a-distance is basically hearing, smell and taste overlap (especially in water), and there's possibly also a chemical receptor (haven’t decided yet).  
> This is another one where I changed tense (present to past), so potential errors, sorry. It’s also an example of the bouncing I mentioned: next week will be back to Greater Mysteries, then back again to here.


	17. Seven of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone has taken something.

The cart rocked and jolted as it travelled on through the snowy night, the swinging lantern throwing shadows across Caranya's face and no doubt turning her smile into something sinister.

“Well,” she said cheerfully. “I thought that went quite well, don't you?”

Dreams-Of-Wings pulled her hood back to glare at the Arch-Mage properly past the furs. “If you define 'well' as a drunken brawl, then I suppose so. I do not.”

Caranya laughed, leaning over to grasp the Argonian's fingers. “But we made so many _friends_ , Dreamer. Except for poor Erikur, I suppose. And Razelan. And Siddgeir might be a little unhappy when he wakes up, but I'm sure he won't remember much”.

The other woman pulled away and buried her face in her hands, wailing quietly. Caranya giggled and settled back in her seat, wrapping her cloak around herself tightly. The cart rocked again, slowing almost to a halt as the driver let his horse pick its own way around the bend. There was a sudden movement under the trees, and Caranya began singing to cover the faint sounds of first one, and then a second person scrambling into the footwell of the cart.

“An old man came courting me, heya ding dorum dah!”

Dreams-Of-Wings rolled her eyes and handed Falanu a spare cloak in exchange for three slim books. She quickly hid them away in her robes and lifted her feet out of the way as the woman wrapped the cloak firmly around a shaking Breton and tucked him under the bench, being careful to stay below the sides of the cart.

“An old man came courting me, me being young!”

Caranya eyed her friend curiously and Falanu shook her head, jerking her thumb out at the benighted forest and walking her fingers. The Arch-Mage grinned and waved encouragingly at her companion. Dreams-Of-Wings sighed, and began humming along with Caranya as the bard wriggled back off the cart and slipped away into the darkness.

“An old man came courting me, said he would marry me!  
Girls, when you're young never wed an old man!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: the Arch-Mage’s taste in music tends towards the vulgar. 
> 
> In case you’re wondering what happened, Caranya already had the connections to get into the Embassy, but the Mage’s College link only got Dreamer in with her so they talked Delphine into getting an invitation for Falanu as well (since information acquisition is basically her job).


	18. Three of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorrow caused by knowledge.

The walls of the College library were lined with enclosed bookcases, each one full to the brim with unique or dangerous books and locked tight. Even the public shelves were overflowing, spare copies weighing down tables or piled on the floor. All of the parchment acted to dampen sound, enforcing silence and causing newcomers to hesitate as their first steps into the library were muffled.

Hjalti, slumped on the table with her head in her arms, didn't realise anyone was nearby until the other chair scraped across the stone floor. She stifled a flinch and looked up warily, surprised to see the Arch-Mage herself sitting there. The High Elf smiled blandly and leaned forward to rest her chin in her hands.

“I take it you've finished reading?” she asked Hjalti quietly. The girl huffed and pushed herself up, mimicking the Arch-Mage's position.

“I'm not that slow,” she said. “I just... Lady Arch-Mage, how could they do this? Didn't they realise what it would do to him?”

“Call me Caranya, dear, we're kin in a way,” the woman replied gently. “And the Altmeri perception of honour is not Nordic, remember that, but I think the Thalmor understood Ulfric quite well. It did work after all.”

Hjalti slid her hands around to rub her neck and tried to think. “So, what now? Why didn't you just give it to the Jarl instead of dragging me here? What am I supposed to do?”

The Arch-Mage took another book off the top of the pile on the table and handed it to her. “You check this copy for errors, and take it back to Ulfric,” she said. “We'll keep the original here for security, but if necessary Falanu can explain how we obtained it in the first place. He needs to be confident he can trust us.”

“That might help,” Hjalti admitted, and opened the dossier she had been reading once again. “But I have no idea what the Jarl's going to do about this, Lady Caranya. Uncle Galmar is going to _explode_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the last of the Little Secrets for a while.  
> The plot bunnies are mutating, my muse is distracted, and my buffer’s evaporated. My reasons for posting chronologically haven’t changed (see: plot mutation), so I’m going have to pull back to posting once a month until things start working again. Next chapter will be posted to Greater Mysteries in May 2018, and we’ll go on from there.  
> Sorry.


	19. Four of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Respite from troubles.

Caranya woke slowly, gradually becoming aware of a warm mass beside her. Given the pungent smell of dog, the coarse hair under her fingers probably belonged to the Boof, but the horse-and-hot-metal scent of the smooth leather against her cheek could only be Lurog. The soft whisper of thread could be heard each time he stopped humming to take a breath, and she suspected he was working on that cap he'd mentioned.

A flash of magic and a soft curse not far away had to be Falanu tying knots in the laws of enchantment again. Caranya made a mental note to ask her about whatever it was in a week or two: the results of her experiments were always interesting, and with luck she'd have worked the bugs out by then.

The soft murmuring further away was distorted by the shape of the room, and Caranya had to resort to the little ring on her thumb and lift her head to figure it out. Two human life-lights bending towards each other and the click of stone against wood suggested a table: presumably Hjalti and Alesan playing hnefatafl. Dreams-Of-Wings was sprawled on the floor nearby, soaking up the heat of the fireplace and muttering in Dovahzul. Hopefully, Arngeir wouldn't mind the sooty scratches she was no doubt leaving on the floor in the absence of notepaper.

Lurog rested a gentle hand on her shoulder when he noticed her moving. “How are you feeling, love?”

“Hm, still tired,” she sighed, and let her head fall back on her husband's thigh. “Keep singing?”

He laughed quietly, and Caranya drifted back to sleep with the ocean-rumble of his voice resonating in her bones.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have Thoughts about Falanu's relationship with the College of Winterhold, given the differences in magic between game-Morrowind and game-Skyrim. Generally, it involves a lot of people standing around muttering things like "How is that working? That should not work!". More specifically, she is known to be pretty hopeless with spells (to the point that when her spells fail, they don't do _anything_. No explosions, no green people, nothing) but weirdly good at enchanting (how are your runes laid out? where are the candles? what do you mean, _it's all in your head!_ ) 
> 
> By the time Alduin showed up, Falanu and the College mostly ignored each other, except for the impossible artifacts dropped off in Winterhold once or twice a year. Caranya uses them for nerd-sniping.
> 
> ETA: Despite appearances, this does not conflict with the first chapter of Greater Mysteries. Dreams-Of-Wings/Hahnuviing wasn't that interested in enchanting, Falanu never got past Tolfdir's initial lessons in anything else, and both of them travelled around a bit, so they were never actually introduced. It's a bit like how you vaguely knew that kid two years ahead of you at school.


	20. Seven of Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Defensiveness.

Extract from _Effects of the Elder Scrolls_ , by Justinius Poluhnius

> There is, for every monk, a day of Penultimate Reading, when the only knowledge the Elder Scroll imparts is that the monk's next reading shall be his last.

* * *

 

“Could you please repeat that?” Lurog said, very carefully. He sank to one knee on the warm hearthstone beside Caranya's chair, and lifted a hand to her chin. She resisted him for a moment, then let him turn her face away from the fire to meet his gaze for the first time in... far too long, actually. The bright hazel eyes he remembered, once threaded with white, were now a blank, blind grey.

“I said,” Caranya told him. “That I would not be able to read the Scroll again, given the consequences this time.”

“That was yesterday,” he said, wide-eyed in disbelief. “You've been dealing with this since then? Cary, why didn't you say something? We could've... Does Dreamer, Hahnuviing know? Or that what's-her-name, Colette, wouldn't she be able to help?”

His wife sniffed at him. “Colette means well, but if the Moth-Priests haven't found a solution in all their centuries I doubt she will. It's not as if I wasn't expecting this to—”

“You what!” Lurog's roar shook the tapestries overhead and echoed through the stone halls of High Hrothgar as he leapt to his feet. They heard footsteps in the corridor and Master Einarth looked in through the doorway. The old man compared Caranya's smooth expression with Lurog's scowl and heaved a pointed sigh. He patted the air— _keep it down_ —and carried on down the corridor.

Lurog closed his eyes, trying to force himself calm. It worked about as well as it usually did. “Caranya, what do you mean by 'expecting this'?”

“As Justinius Poluhnius wrote,” she said patiently. “The knowledge received by the second-to-last reading is always that the next one is the last. That happened to me last summer.”

“Why didn't you say something? Someone else could have read the thing, it didn't have to be you!”

“I wasn't about to pass this opportunity up, Lurog, the effects of reading a Elder Scroll within a Time-Wound were a complete unknown.”

He gaped at her, speechless. “I meant... you... gah!” Lurog threw up his hands and turned away. The blizzard probably wouldn't cool his temper, but it couldn't be worse than staying here.

“Scholars!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caranya is admittedly something of a mad scientist. She's aware that damaging her eyesight is not the best idea, but she doesn't quite get why Lurog is upset about not being told.


	21. Two of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conflict between heart and mind.

“There you are!”

Hjalti flinched away, and yelped as a large hand clamped firmly onto her shoulder and pulled her to her feet. “Lu, what...?”

Lurog began to march her down the road to the gates, ignoring her protests and nodding politely to the amused guards as they passed. Presumably they thought she was avoiding his chores, half of Whiterun seemed to think he'd had taken her on as an apprentice or adopted her or something.

She managed to shift his grip a little so that she appeared less in trouble as they crossed the bridge, but he didn't allow her to wriggle away entirely.

“We're having this conversation outside the walls,” Lurog said, watching her sidelong. “Just in case.”

They cut through the caravan site—thankfully vacant—and he guided Hjalti over and around the grassy rocks until they were standing by a narrow stream-bed, summer-low with a young nirnroot chiming nearby. Lurog glanced over his shoulder at the town walls behind them and nodded.

“This should be far enough,” he said, and pulled Hjalti down to sit with him on the stream bank. “Now. What're you brooding about?”

Hjalti gaped, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. “I – I don't know what to do! It's impossible!” she moaned. “We need Dragonreach to get the dragon, and we need peace to get Dragonsreach, and we need to win the war to get peace, and, and even _Ulfric_ hasn't been able to do that, and...”

The Orc rested his chin on hand, eyeing her. “First of all,” he sighed. “I think you've forgotten something: Ulfric is only Greybeard trained, not a Dragonborn. You are stronger than Ulfric.” He paused a moment to let this sink in and went on while Hjalti was still blinking in astonishment. “Secondly, Balgruuf didn't say we had to win the war. A truce while Alduin lives would–”

“With the Imperials! You can be serious! There'll nev-ahhh!” She shot to her feet to yell and Lurog kicked her feet out from under her, watching as she floundered in the soggy mud of the stream-bed.

“Thirdly,” he said, leaning forward to look her in the eye. “You and I are probably the only ones who care more about one side than the other in this blasted war, and the strongholds _used to trade with the Reachmen_!”

She froze, and he leaned back again. “So, you can throw your weight behind the Stormcloaks, if you like. That's your right and I'll not argue with it. Just remember that I'll do my damnedest to hold Whiterun against you, and I don't know what everyone else will do as Skyrim falls apart. Run for Solstheim probably. _Or_ you can help us drag Ulfric and Elisif to the negotiating table.”

Hjalti clambered to her feet and stepped out of the mud, slumping back down beside him without a word.

“I can't tell you what to do, kid,” Lurog said patiently. “I can explain the consequences, but you have to decide for yourself.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is technically complete, although there's always the risk I'll decide something needs to be changed. ~~Current posting plan is for one chapter a week, but this may speed up once it's all posted to draft or if I get bored.~~ Current posting plan is for one chapter a month, from either Greater Mysteries or Little Secrets as the timeline runs.  
> 


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